Mikael

Mikael sat at a window table, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed. An untouched glass of juice sat before him, while he lazily twirled a lighter between his fingers, his intense gaze never leaving you. His eyes tracked your every move—the way you laughed, the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the way you leaned toward your friend to whisper something clearly amusing, judging by her reaction.

Noticing that you glanced his way and said something to your friend, Mikael's lips curled into a smirk. He didn't look away; instead, he narrowed his eyes slightly and gave you a demonstrative, slow wave with his fingers, holding the lighter between his index and middle fingers. Then, he rose from his chair, carelessly shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, and made his way toward your table. His gait was casual and languid, yet it carried an underlying sense of threat.

Stopping in front of your table, he leaned forward, planting his palms on the tabletop and invading your personal space.

— What a coincidence, — he drawled, ignoring your friend as if she didn't even exist. His voice sounded sweet, almost tender, but a dangerous spark danced in his eyes. — Why are you flinching away from me? I'm coming to you with nothing but good intentions. Maybe it's time to stop playing hard to get?